


Layers

by AeonDelirium



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M, One Shot Collection, Throose Week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:05:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1915560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeonDelirium/pseuds/AeonDelirium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under the cover of darkness and behind closed doors, Roose strives to erase the imperfections of his son's creation.</p>
<p>A collection of one shots for Throose Week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The other man

There is a silent man who visits him at night.  
Of course, there is no telling night and day apart, but when he enters the small cell his clothes smell of evening chill, and he moves with the wordless pride of one who has sucked out the marrow of another day. He does not speak. He needs no voice to command.

Theon stands to greet him, every night without fail. He sways sometimes, and sometimes he falls, but he always tries. It earns him a nod in return, and though his body knows and dreads the things to come, his heart beats faster at this most common courtesy. It reminds him of someone he used to be.

The touch is gentle, yet infinitely possessive.  
Ramsay wants to consume, plucking flowers for the simple pleasure of watching them wilt, drinking the juice straight from the winepress for its undiffused sweetness and the swift rush it brings.  
This man is different. He does not care for flowers. He likes his wine aged, sweetened and spiced to taste, not to intoxicate. He wants to _own._

Theon steps toward him without hesitation, arms at his sides, defenceless, a gesture that would seem obscene with Ramsay, would seem cheap, would seem shameful. It is an act of submission that has become natural to him, almost instinctive; a branch might snap under the heavy weight of snow, but move gracefully even in the coldest breeze.  
And though there is nothing graceful in what the man does to him and what he asks without words, Theon has learned to be grateful for the small dignity that lies in pretending there is a choice.

The man’s ears are deaf to plea and insult alike, and in his silence he renders even the loudest scream powerless, a waste of breath and strength.  
There is a certain liberty in knowing he may cry and roar and beg until his throat is sore and his tears dry up, and Theon learns to cherish it. Sometimes the relief is so sweet it torments him, along with the way their bodies seem to fit together a little better every time.

His blade is sharp and cool, and – outside their lessons – kept impeccably clean.  
Ramsay cuts and tears and rips, trying to reshape this mess of flesh and blood he has created into something new and entirely his, believing divinity within his blood-stained reach with every strip of skin he peels away. He wants to scrape out heart and soul and replace them with rot.  
This man does not _cut._ He strips away not to discard, but to reveal. He _dissects._

He spends hours on him at a stretch, his blade steady as the sickening sound of parting flesh seeps from the skin he opens up, and he digs deeper, an agonising inch at a time. There are no words even as the sobbing, babbling creature Reek crumbles away to reveal the boy he has been, the boy cut from his home, cut from his family, cut from his own self.  
There is only a set of hands working away at his core, a set of eyes driven by what must be a perpetual desire to find and mark another layer as his own.

Sometimes, Theon wonders what will happen when there are no more layers left.


	2. Favours

There is something deeply satisfying in watching a starving man eat. It is good because it is needed, it is needed because it is natural. It is vital.  
There is greed in Theon’s eyes, and in the way he sucks the grease from his lips, but it is born of necessity and the deep-rooted will to live. He works on the meal rather than enjoys it, wasting no time with fleeting pleasures fate might too soon wrench from his grasp.

Loath though Roose is to admit it, he finds a strange, bewildering beauty in this sorry creature Ramsay has created. He has cut away pride, vanity and lust, cleansed him of vice and decadence and stripped him of his mask. What he requires is a finishing touch, varnish carefully applied by hands that are gentler than Ramsay’s, who has a butcher’s sense of craftsmanship and no finesse at all.

The prisoner freezes when Roose reaches out for him, dropping a piece of gristly meat back onto the plate. He makes a soft, helpless sound at the back of his throat, a dog that has come to expect his master’s boot. It is no surprise, not after the things Ramsay has done and the things he has done, and the things that still loom in the darkness, the things to come. Even so, Roose is sickened by the display.

His thumb catches the thick drop of grease before it drips from Theon’s chin, lightly brushing the stubbly skin as he gathers the glistening substance with silent patience. Theon does not breathe, but his nostrils flare and his eyes are dark with fear. Behind his lips, soft and slickened from the food, Roose can feel the empty spaces where teeth have broken and crumbled away, and the overwhelming urge to hurt this wreck of a man rears its head inside him, a powerful surge that seizes his body in its entirety. It manifests as nothing more than a sharp intake of breath and a slight trembling of his hand, but Theon seems to feel it, tensing beneath his touch.

In the end his lips part, and his tongue laps cautiously at the offered digit, eyes glazing over for the fraction of a moment as he allows himself to savour a taste so long denied him. Then Roose withdraws, and the soft sucking sound of their reluctant parting whips the blood through his veins in a heated rhythm.

Their eyes meet for a wordless exchange, and Roose gives a slight nod, feeling almost, _almost_ elated at the gratitude that lights up Theon’s face as he picks up the last piece of meat.

Later, when the plate is clean and the cup is drained, Theon slips beneath the table without another sound, to prove once more that a favour done freely is sweeter than pleasure taken by force.


	3. Bad Blood

“We are not entirely dissimilar, you and I,” Lord Roose remarks, chest rising and falling calmly as the creatures feed from him.  
Theon pauses for a moment, freezes, rather, his hand hovering above the surface of the water. He does not know if the leeches can smell him, but they gather beneath the shadow he casts, a dark ball of squirming slick flesh in the centre of the earthen basin. They sense him, somehow, and it makes his heart stutter in his chest.  
“M’lord?” he probes finally, when he is certain Lord Roose has finished. The man makes pauses between words sometimes that could fill books, if there were letters for silence. It is best not to interrupt them.  
  
Tonight, however, he seems to be in a jovial mood, a gentle mood even. A smile touches his face like a bird wing a silent lake, and Theon’s stomach clenches to see it. He dips his hand in the water swiftly to break the spell, focusing on his task.  
“I knew you before you were my guest, Lord Greyjoy.” There is something of a reprimand in his voice, but it is the name more than anything that makes Theon flinch, almost squishing a precious leech between his fingers as he draws it from the bowl.  
“Please, m’lord,” he begins feebly, but his whisper crumbles to defeated silence when Lord Roose continues.  
“You were never a stranger to bad blood,” he muses, his eyelids heavy and even paler than usual as he lies there, spread out. Vulnerable, yet a perfect image of composure and control.  
“Certain _urges_ one might say, unhealthy obsessions perhaps, most unfortunate in any man who fancies himself a leader.” The softest sigh escapes his lips as another leech is placed upon his chest, or perhaps it is just a deep breath.  
Theon remains silent, but he trembles.  
This is no place for the man he once was, the man who might have dreamed of war and glory and whores, most of all whores. He lies buried beneath the rubble of Winterfell, never to rise again.  
  
Again Lord Roose pauses, and the pause stretches into a silence, and the silence into the hope that the conversation is over, allowing Reek to simply go about his task.  
The leeches do not truly frighten him, though they writhe in his hands, eager to latch their black mouths onto his skin. They have bitten him before, but what is the bite of a leech compared to that of a flaying knife, or worse …  
His thoughts are, blessedly, cut short as Lord Roose once more begins to speak.  
“You, too, have been drained of it, and very thoroughly so.”  
The comparison is cruel. Of course, a part of him is eager to agree; after all he has been improved. He has changed for the better. Theon Greyjoy was a foolish boy and a traitor. Theon Greyjoy was no use to anyone. And still, for a moment he can do nothing but stare at the man, dull-eyed and baffled by the unexpected blow, delivered by a voice as soft as silk.  
When the smile comes again, Theon knows he was right about it. It bodes ill. And it does not fade when he places another leech on his lordship, just above his navel.  
“A marvellous creature, truly,” the man remarks, his bright eyes focused on the glistening skin, becoming unfocused for a fleeting moment when the tiny teeth sink in.  
“Greedy without doubt, and despised by most … but indeed very useful when put to work. When put to the right task.”  
  
It is only then that Theon begins to understand what he implies, and suddenly the sight of the leeches sickens him, engorged as they lie on Lord Roose’s skin, some of them still swelling with blood, others already full to the brim, sated. Suddenly their black skin looks monstrous to him, nightmarish as it seems to absorb all light from the candles.  
He shrieks when he feels the bite on his hand, pulling it out of the basin to see one of the creatures clinging to it, dark flesh rippling as it begins to suck. He waves his arm about, hysteria washing over him when it refuses to let go.

Lord Roose’s grip is gentle but firm; his fingers close around his wrist, keeping him still.  
Theon ceases to struggle almost immediately. Together they watch as the creature feeds from him greedily, swelling with his blood. After a moment he feels a little fainter, a little less afraid after another, and it is almost as though his heartbeat begins to slow.  
“There are things men like you and I must endure,” Lord Roose says very softly, and he pulls the leech from Theon’s hand, holding it between his fingers almost tenderly, thick dark blood oozing out of its wet mouth.  
“In order to better ourselves.”


End file.
